Shades Of Darkness
by MizzSY
Summary: There are shades of darkness, we see Sherlock when he's in the light of his life, but first, he had to go through the darkest shades. Contains drug use, attempted suicide and violence
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shades of dark

Pairings: John/Sherlock in later chapters if you squint

Rating: T for non-graphic violence, drug use and attempted suicide.

Summary: There are shades of darkness, we see Sherlock when he's in the light of his life, but first, he had to go through the darkest shades.

Chapter: 1/3

Disclaimer: I do not own.

Brothers stuck together.

It was a belief that Sherlock had been clinging to since he was 5. After all, Mycroft inspire him, encouraging the unique ability the 2 children had. He would not be without his role model.

And for the most of it, Mycroft did that and more for his little brother. He'd teach him, guide him and make sure he was not alone. After all, Sherlock grounded him. The arrival of a sibling who had his talent gave him a kindred spirit as well as a reminder not to get to far above himself. The pair of them balanced each other out, keeping themselves within society's view of "normal", making their lives that little bit easier. It worked well, leaving the Holmes family with a degree of peace.

That was, until the boy's parents were brought into it. Screaming matches occurred nightly, and didn't escalate into something more if they were lucky. But more often than not, Mycroft would spend the night covering his brother's ears, desperately trying to block out the crashes below them.

It didn't surprise either of them when their mother left their father, but they hadn't expected to also be left behind.

One morning, Sherlock found the note, explaining that she'd be back for them once she'd sorted her living arrangements.

One night, Sherlock was the next one in line to get the brunt of his father's rage. Mycroft found out how to splint his eight year old brother's leg.

A pattern soon began, of Sherlock being too defiant or clever for their father's liking and suffering for it whilst Mycroft would wait quietly until it was all finished to go and comfort his brother, tending to his injuries and keeping away from their father when possible.

But after months of the routine, something finally snapped and Mycroft lashes out from the shadows, throwing himself between his father and Sherlock: an exercise of futility. Two sharp cracks of the fists and a vicious kick had Mycroft down on the floor. His father's shadows cast ominously over him when Sherlock came between them, the light trying to withstand the dark.

In the end, the only thing that changed for the brothers that night was they shared the pain. Mycroft, although now having a deeper understanding with his brother, felt more useless than ever as he watched Sherlock lock himself out from the world. It was impossible to criticise the action, if he didn't receive pain from those e knew he was shunned and ridiculed by those who were too ignorant to accept his gift. Something fracture in their bond as Mycroft painfully watched Sherlock fade from reality, perhaps it started when Sherlock himself broke.

He was so successful in his removing himself that he was subbed as a sociopath.

By the time Mycroft left for university, Sherlock was merely a bruised and battered ghost. But the care, the love was still there, a wisp still felt between the brothers throughout their rocky lives. Unfortunately, it meant there was still hurt to be had at their parting.

"You can't leave" Sherlock had stated sulkily, his expression deadpan as he stared it out. Mycroft felt a pang of regret at leaving him as he took in his brother's appearance, looking every bit the teenager as he proceeded to pout.

His increasing height only made his face become more drawn and angular, at present he was still becoming used to his gangly limbs and new-found tallness. Pale skin and over-grown hair also lent s gothic look to the mix.

Sherlock looked so young and it made Mycroft want to protect him all the more.

"I'll be back, to take you away from him." Mycroft assured him, referring to their father, who, unsurprisingly, was absent. " Soon as I have the means to."

"Yeah, you make yourself comfortable while I'm stuck in this hell." He hissed. "Don't talk about your means to an ends, and don't make promises, brother."

Mycroft paused, before placing a hand gently on Sherlock's pointy shoulder.

"You don't need me to promise, I would never abandon you."

"But leaving me alone with that man isn't abandonment?"

They held a look for a while, exchanging thoughts like they always had with simple stares.

"You don't know what he wants to do." Sherlock finally said in a weaker, more fearful tone.

"I will be back, before it gets worse."

"But-"

"Mycroft!"

Sherlock's confession was cut off by their father's late appearance. Not waiting to listen to the speech, Sherlock slipped away.

The brothers didn't get another chance at goodbye before Mycroft was swept away to his new opportunity at life and Sherlock sunk further into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ard1en: **Glad as I am that my fic creates such joy with your voices, please don't kill the hostages, I don't want to b implicated in murder! Thanks loads for review

**Crazycuppycake:** Whoo, my work here is done if the fic gives you shivers! Hope you enjoy rest of the fic =)

Disclaimer: No ownership.

* * *

That was the last time Mycroft saw his brother face to face until Sherlock himself went to university.

Contact had been difficult, in-between study time and being brilliant, Mycroft could barely find the chance to arrange a meeting with Sherlock, who was struggling to even make their occasional phone calls with their father present. Even they wore out after some time.

So, Mycroft, now a high-up government agent having been head picked early on, couldn't wait to see his little brother again after years. Sherlock had leapt at the chance to leave home and had ended up in a top end university, having impressed them with his fantastic intelligence (even if he had offended one or two with his lack of social skills.) He climbed up the stairs of the on-site student accomdation, getting more and more excited with each step. Would he have grown into his lanky form yet, would he still resemble a child?

He rapped on the door briskly, fidgeting in anticipation as the door finally opened, revealing a pale Sherlock behind it. But soon, his face lit up at the sight of his older brother.

"Mycroft!"

In an instant, Sherlock had flung himself into Mycroft's arms. Even as a child, hug weren't something Sherlock would give often, so this was a clear indication of just how happy he was to see his brother. He wasted no time in dragging Mycroft into his (messy) new room and giving him the abridged version of his life since they'd last set eyes upon each other, completely omitting their father from it. In turn, Mycroft regaled Sherlock with his climb up the governmental ladder; he was thrilled to learn how much his brother had achieved. It was like a hope that he too could have a bright future; the fact that he'd escaped from his dark family home was just the beginning. All the way through their talk, they stayed within a close proximity to the other, just to feel the protection and companionship they'd missed over the years. The hours turned over, and even after staying for the lunch and tea that Mycroft hadn't originally planned, the visit was over and they had to depart once again. They parted with another out-of-character embrace.

"I'll be back, more often, promise."

They did not talk about how Mycroft had promised last time. They did not talk about how Sherlock had been isolated for years. They did not talk about how much hurt there had been on either side of the relationship.

* * *

But this time, true to his word, Mycroft visited often, even allowing Sherlock to come up to his expensive Oxford home and proudly introducing him to his new circle of "associates". Sherlock had never felt better, being in his brothers company, being with other people who weren't shunning him. Mycroft didn't seem the least bit embarrassed that the scrawny, sullen teenager was his brother. The only part that concerned the younger Holmes brother was that Mycroft seemed ashamed of _himself_, not allowing his true ability of deduction to show through in the presence of his, quite frankly, snobby friends.

The second time Sherlock was invited back, he did his best to show them all just how brilliant the Holmes brothers were. That was the last time he went, after he pointed out that a particularly elegant woman had had several plastic surgeries. Some people just couldn't handle the truth.

But even despite this, the visits continued, right up until Sherlock's second year, because that's when Mycroft _truly_ saw his brother, and didn't like what he saw.

It was a surprise visit, Mycroft had been sent to this area and had decided to drop in on his brother, and they'd grown so close again that they didn't bother with arranging anything. He felt perfectly comfortable in letting himself in.

As he opened the door, he was surprised to see there was no light on in the room or that Sherlock wasn't lounging on his bed or working at his desk, he was huddled in a corner on the floor.

"Sherlock?"

The silhouette of his brother's head snapped up, his eyes eerily clear against the dark of the rest of the room. Not only that, but the wild, unprotected look in them was all too foreign for Sherlock's face.

"Why are you down there?"

There was still no reply; instead, Sherlock started scrabbling to his feet, though his movements were clumsy, like he was drunk. Mycroft sighed, realising that despite his best efforts, Sherlock has finally found out the best part of going to university. He reached for the light, deciding it would be best to deal with his drunken little brother in visible conditions.

"Don't!" Sherlock suddenly cried out, hurtling jerkily to where his brother had already flicked on the light, flooding the little room with light.

They both blinked in the light, before Mycroft found his vision and looked to the corner where his brother had been, trying to figure out just how much he'd had.

Except it wasn't a bottle reflecting there, there was a lighter, a bag and a syringe.

He slowly turned his gaze back to his brother, to see he was looking shamefully at the ground, the hunch of his thin shoulders very obvious.

"It's…I didn't mean to…"

"_You didn't mean to?"_ Mycroft shouted, putting his face close to Sherlock, who looked beyond terrified. "You _stupid_ _idiotic_ boy! Nobody forced you to dose yourself with it! Why on earth would you be so dumb?"

Sherlock tried to back away from his brother's stare.

"Yeah, but-"

Mycroft's fury over loaded.

"_BUT NOTHING!_"

The rage at the idea of his little brother _destroying _himself took over his actual thought processes, and his hand lashed out without command, striking as a fist just below Sherlock's cheekbone.

Neither of them moved for a moment, both recovering from what had just happened. Mycroft looked bewildered that it had been _his_ fist that had caused the bruise now blossoming on his brother's face, whereas Sherlock looked betrayed, frightened, and downright furious.

"You're like both of them." He said icily, shakily holding his brothers gaze. "You said you'd come back, said you wouldn't abandon _but you did and I was all alone!_ You said the exact thing that she did but I thought I could trust you Mycroft!"

Mycroft didn't try to interrupt as Sherlock paused to heave in breath, close to sobbing.

"And I'm alone now but you don't care, you said you'd protect me but you don't, you just go off and be brilliant and pretend and I have to stay here and be the _freak_."

A deep sob did escape this time.

"But I never thought you'd be like _him_, never."

Mycroft strode towards his brother, who flung himself out of reach.

"_Don't come near me!"_ He shouted.

"You can't do this to yourself Sherlock." Mycroft said, aware that his voice was also quaking. "It's below you."

And just as Sherlock was about to scream for his brother to get out, Mycroft left the room without a glance back. Gingerly, he brushed his fingers against the tender bruise against his face.

_He didn't care he didn't care he didn't care._

Except he did, and it was killing him to see the disappointment in his brother's eyes, to see that even his closest ally thought he was making himself _worthless_.

He felt the pain go deeper and deeper and he wanted to scream out but didn't dare, they thought he was weird enough already. It was trapping him and he wanted to punch and kick and do _anything_ so he didn't feel like he was sinking.

But he did have a way out, and it was still lying in the corner.

He reached out and started what he'd been doing before his brother had interrupted, tears blurred his vision as he measured it out but it didn't matter, not today.

It wasn't like anyone would miss him if he got the amount wrong anyway, he certainly wouldn't care if his relief carried him away from this dark, dark life.

The needle broke his skin as the drug flew through his blood stream and he couldn't feel anything, like being wrapped in a blanket and all the bad, hurting things in his life flew away.

His roommate found him later, and called the ambulance when they found his breathing laboured. It went down on the record as a suicide attempt.

Mycroft never came to visit.

The second time nobody knew, he had done it alone in a locked toilet during the university day, driven there by the stares and the whispers and the bloody talking. He just felt so lonely and desperate as he emptied the pill bottle into his mouth.

A few hours he woke up again, still in the toilet and still in his screwed up life. He'd started crying, overwhelmed by how unfair it was, by how stupid he was not to even be able to kill himself properly, how he didn't deserve this life and how much he missed talking to _anyone_.

The third and final time had been an accident of sorts. He'd had a knife and had started experimenting with the thought that if he felt _physical_ pain it might distract him from the pain inside that it would help. He'd got a bit carried away; he _knew_ that if he carried on that the blood-loss would kill him. He knew so many things but couldn't bring himself to care about this knowledge. So he carried on, watching almost with interest as the blood ran down his pale arm, barely feeling any pain.

The crimson drops, the tears of a freak.

He'd quickly passed out at wherever he'd wandered to in his numb state and was found by a late night cleaner.

He wouldn't allow Mycroft into the hospital room; the dark within them both had taken their bond long ago.

And so, Sherlock was now sat in a dingy hospital bed, bored out of his head and restless. Naturally, he knew how to slip past any nurses and ended up wandering down the corridors of ST Barts, looking for anything to do.

The morgue had, of course, caught his interest, and Sherlock took the time to examine the unattended corpse.

"What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock quickly snapped up, taking in the grey haired man in front of him. Given that he had legitimate access in here (tone of voice meant he had authority to kick Sherlock out) and didn't have any sort of hospital uniform, police officer, high rank as he wore an expensive suit and had developed a commanding voice (not natural, tone of voice doesn't fit).

"Looking at the murder case body… got bored." He replied casually.

"It's not a murder case, it's a suicide." The man replied curtly. "Now if you could just-"

"Yes it is! It's obvious!"

The man raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock tried his best not to be intimidated.

"Nails, the polish has been chipped so there must have been a struggle, you do not struggle when killing yourself." He should no.

"Nails chip all the time." The man was beginning to become irritated now. "If you'd just get on your way-"

"She wouldn't let her nails get chipped, she's rich and vain, why would she? If you look at the skin of her face, you can see it's had extensive make up on it, and there are some traces of botox injections." He also knew injections marks all too well. "And, if it was suicide, what was the cause?"

"She took sleeping pills-"

"Couldn't have." Sherlock swept to the post-mortem notes in a file. "The composition of whatever she took is different from any easily available tablets."

The man now looked doubtful at his first thoughts now.

"But whatever she took did kill her?"

Sherlock nodded.

"But it was forcibly given, if you look at her jaw." He gently tweaked it. "It's far stiffer than it would be at this stage of death, which suggest there was some force applied before death."

The man now looked totally convinced.

"I _knew_ there was something more to it!" he started running to the door, before pausing and turning to Sherlock. "You fancy coming and explaining why my superiors wrong?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, rubbing his brilliance in posh people's faces was one of his favourite pass times.

"Sure nurses won't miss me."

The man's face fell.

"You're not a mental patient are you?"

"Not at all."

The smile returned.

"Then you can come along. I'm DI Lestrade."

"Sherlock Holmes."

They walked out of the door together.

"I think we'll keep you around for a while, Holmes."

* * *

M'afraid final chapter probably won't be posted till New Year, so have a happy Christmas all and a crazy new year =).Also, I will be posting a Christmas Sherlock story Christmas day if you're interested.

MizzSY X


	3. Chapter 3

Dayja: Thanks! I wasn't sure about how I'd get Sherlock and Lestrade to meet, but I'm glad you liked it =)

Final chapter all! Hope you've enjoyed the story!

Disclaimer: Sherlock is not owned by me.

**ALSO, I HAVE A COMPETITION UP: WINNER GETS A STORY OF ANY PAIRING, GENRE, RATING ETC AND (ALMOST) ANY FANDOM. GO TO MY PROFILE FOR DETAILS.**

On with the story.

* * *

It was a whirl; to be taken from the darkest pit and flung into this paradise you never thought you could have made his head spin. When he thought that his only escape from people's sickening pity, or disgust and sheer ignorance was to finally end his life, he was saved.

The new world Lestrade offered him was perfect. He left university and happily became the worlds only consulting detective, he could lock himself away at his new flat and (whilst ignoring his irate landlord) be a "freak" to his heart's content. Of course, he noticed Anderson's attitude and Donovan's disdain, he heard what they called him, he was a genius after all, but it simply bounced off him. It was still an escape for these people would never truly know him or his past. Behind all their insults, they all knew they were impressed.

Sherlock could hide away now, from his past, from the ostracizing and from his brother. He saw Mycroft's cronies following him, reporting back to their leader because of his "concern", but he no longer cared for his brother anymore. The bond was dead and he owed the man nothing.

Only Lestrade knew about the drugs, after the hospital meeting he had checked the medical records, just to be sure Sherlock really wasn't a mental patient.

He was not pleased with what he found.

The man had stormed round to his flat that day, furious when he heard from Sherlock himself that he still used the drugs when life became too dark again. Sherlock watched as the man went into inner conflict. It was his duty to arrest the man for possessing the substance, but he could still see the broken look behind Sherlock's mood swings and back chat.

He made a decision there and then; instead of throwing him back into despair, he offered Sherlock a choice. Quit taking the drugs or he wouldn't come back to the police investigations. There was only one answer for him, and he started on the path to getting clean.

Maybe it would have been easier if he'd had someone, a friend, definitely not family. But he'd never know, and in the present, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. Where he was now was light, it was good.

The darkness couldn't touch him here.

_Several Months Later_

"SHERLOCK!"

The detective looked up from his computer at the sound of his flat mate's voice ringing up the stairs. Really, why couldn't he just text instead of making all that noise? Grudgingly, he tore himself away from commenting on John's blog to go see the man himself.

"What is it?"

"We're having a Bond night, right now."

Sherlock stared at him for a while, and then walked back towards his computer.

"Sherlock!"

"Let me guess; is it rude to walk off?"

His friend huffed at him, getting exasperated like he was dealing with a child.

"Do you seriously not know about this stuff, or do you just not care?"

Sherlock shrugged, not taking his eyes away from whatever he was researching.

"Mixture of both, I don't care about knowing it."

John gave in, simply collapsing into the sofa beside his friend.

"You're parents should teach you some manners." He sighed face down in the cushions, not noticing the momentary stiffness in Sherlock's posture.

"You mean the fake charm Mycroft possesses?"

Some sort of grunt came from the sofa; Sherlock ignored it and carried on working.

* * *

John was the brand new kind of light in his life, one that blinded Sherlock so greatly that it hurt to be in it, after staying in the dark so long.

A dark that would not be forgotten.

John had seen the marks across his arms, the self-made ones, but had not questioned. By now they had faded to pale white lines that would easily be dismissed by someone who noticed them.

But, being a doctor, John noticed more and more of the marks.

When he spotted Sherlock in a baggy shirt, he saw the thin scar peeking out from the top of the collar, from the time he'd been pushed into a glass table as a boy.

Sherlock passed it off as a car accident.

When they both ended up in hospital with fractured bones after another crazy chase, and he saw the bulging medical file, the way the doctor was so familiar with Sherlock.

The detective claimed he'd gotten hurt many times during his career.

When he'd come home early from Sarah's and surprised Sherlock, who was sat on the sofa, fiddling with his oddly shaped toes, which hadn't healed properly after his father had broken several off them.

The genius said that it was just a genetic thing.

But no lies could have hidden it when John accidentally barged in on him after his shower, with only a towel round his waist and his back clearly on display.

John couldn't stop the gasp of horror as he took in the array of cuts and burns from years ago, nor could Sherlock stop the jolt of hurt when he heard the sound or the way he bolted from the room.

And John couldn't stop himself from following.

"How did you get them?" he asked simply when he found Sherlock laid out on his bed, staring blindly into thin air. The detective remained silent, but John didn't give in.

"I've seen injuries from abuse before; was it a friend, partner, what?" he gently probed, knowing he was right from the way Sherlock clenched his fists at the word "abuse".

"My father." He said flatly, before turning his back on John.

"Mycroft, did he know about this? Try to help?"

"Mycroft was just as bad." There was more anger behind Sherlock's voice this time. Not put off, John sat himself on the edge of the bed, placing a hand reassuringly on his friend's bony shoulder.

"You didn't have to hide it."

At this, the detective flung himself around and faced John with terrifyingly raging eyes.

"I didn't have to hide it? You don't think I tried? He found out, he always did! Then, when you're older, it makes them treat you like an outsider, like a freak, and you start to think you deserved it!" he snarled right in Watson's face, who had backed up slightly. "Do you want to see the rest of them? Story of my life, mapped out by all my scars." He started tugging a sleeve back on his arm. " These "scratches" are from when I nearly killed myself after cutting too deep, those marks on my upper arm are from I drugged myself into an oblivion, the one on my elbow was when he found out I'd told someone the first time." He jabbed his finger into each offending wound in turn, when he went to the next sleeve, John caught his hands.

"Nobody would deserve it." He said evenly, meeting his friends gaze. "Least of all you; I know you feel damaged, but that does not make you a freak, it show how strong you've been."

They both sunk into a much-needed silence after that, and proceeded to sink into an awkward embrace, and then lay on the bed next to each other as Sherlock told John all of it.

Just as darkness could creep into the light, the light could out-shine the dark.

* * *

Well, I've hoped you've enjoyed it!

MizzSY x


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